


Hands Clasped Against the World

by TsumetaiYuuki



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feeding, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Platonic Cuddling, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:58:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1378105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TsumetaiYuuki/pseuds/TsumetaiYuuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire has a bad day, but tries to suffer through it alone.  Luckily, Jehan is an awesome friend and quite in tune with Grantaire's misguided attempts at altruism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands Clasped Against the World

**Author's Note:**

> Check the tags for warnings please. Inspired by [this prompt](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13775.html?thread=11571663#t11571663) on the kink meme.
> 
> Dedicated to all the wonderful people that give hugs and all the amazing people that need a hug.

To be honest, if Grantaire was pressed for exactly why he was slumped on the monstrosity of a couch that filled up most of the empty space of his living room, he would not be able to pinpoint a reason. There was no traumatic event that caused him to have spent the majority of the day in a drunken stupor, cradling a bottle in one arm and hugging a pillow to his side – unless the entirety of his life could be deemed a traumatic event. It was not even as if life was all that difficult for him at this particular point in time: his classes were going as well as could be expected from him, the rent was paid, his friends were mostly supportive, and Enjolras did not detest him any more than usually (for the time being). 

He had no excuse for curling up on the couch in a mountain of pillows and sobbing inconsolably into the softest blanket that he owned, besides being the worthless failure that he always was. 

Dropping the now empty bottle amidst the ones that littered the floor, Grantaire turned away from the world and buried his face into the back of the couch. He was consumed with a loneliness that seemed to eat away at him, isolated in the apartment he shared with Jehan with nary a soul to care if he simply disappeared. Even the poet, who was all too familiar with the fits of sadness that would seize Grantaire, was off on a date with Courfeyrac. 

But that was for the better; it was Grantaire, after all, who nonchalantly shrugged off Jehan’s concerned looks and touches that morning. Grantaire was a hopeless void of a black hole who only managed to bring down those around him. The empathetic Jehan should be kept as far away as physically possible from him as possible, for Grantaire in such a sorry state would only trigger the poet’s own melancholy, and that would be simply unforgiveable. 

Jehan deserved far better than Grantaire, who only destroyed everything he came in contact with. That he could stand to flat-share with the useless drunk was a miracle in and of itself, and could be written down only to the poet’s loving nature, which spared no one, no matter their worth.

Another sob escaped Grantaire and he curled up farther into his nest of warmth, wishing desperately that the blankets and pillows were the warmth of a comforting hug. At the same time, he knew that would never happen – he would never subject anyone to him at his worst. Dealing with him at his best was dreadful enough. Surely he would scare every living being away with his ugliness; and, on top of that, he did not even possess a redeeming personality that diffused the blow of his features. 

No, he was rotten through and through, and that was why he was sitting alone in the darkness of his apartment and sobbing into an inanimate object that could hardly provide any comfort. This was, after all, all that he deserved.

Grantaire was so consumed by his inner demons that he did not register another living being in the room until a soft voice murmured, “Oh, Grantaire,” and he was swept up in a comforting embrace. Starting violently, the dark-haired man twisted around until he came face to face with Jehan, who was definitely not supposed to be here. After all, that was why he was on the couch instead of in his bed; typically these breakdowns began in the dark safety of his own room, unless he was too wrecked to make it there.

“Why are you here?” Grantaire hissed, blinking away tears. Torn between relief that he was no longer alone, embarrassment at being caught bawling like a child, and anxiety that he not infect the compassionate Jehan, Grantaire lashed out in a poor attempt to protect himself.

“I thought something was off this morning.” Making room for himself next to Grantaire, a rather amazing feat since his arms never left the other man, Jehan frowned. “You promised me that you would tell me.” The “if you needed someone” was left unsaid. For no matter how many times this ritual was performed, Grantaire always felt like a burden during another one of his slumps, and no caring words from anyone could convince him otherwise. 

Nevertheless, Jehan always had an uncanny sense for telling when Grantaire was caught in one of his lows.

“You should be on your date with Courfeyrac,” Grantaire protested mutely, turning his face into Jehan’s shoulder after unsuccessfully trying to stem the flow of his tears. One of the poet’s hands found its way into Grantaire’s curls, combing through them soothingly despite Grantaire’s protest that he was dirty.

“I need to be here more right now,” Jehan answered firmly, an edge beginning to form in his eyes, which truly were a window to all of his emotions. “And there’s nothing that you can say to convince me otherwise,” he continued, pulling Grantaire closer to him when he felt the lips against his shoulder forming words in objection. 

Burying his face into the warmth that Jehan willingly provided, Grantaire found himself obligated to continue protesting, though he felt as if he might shatter if Jehan did indeed leave for Courfeyrac right now. “No one should have to deal with me like this, Prouvaire, let alone you.” 

The edge sharpened into something bordering on anger, though it was not necessarily directed towards Grantaire himself. Pulling away slightly so that he could stare Grantaire straight into the eyes, Jehan bit out, “What is that supposed to mean?”

Glancing away, Grantaire answered, “You should be on your date with Courf – don’t tell me that you wouldn’t rather be, because I know the two of you have been planning this for weeks. All of your spare time was utterly consumed with arranging the perfect date. You shouldn’t have to deal with your mess of a roommate, who can’t even keep himself together long enough to avoid sobbing into a fucking pillow, instead.” Grantaire’s hands clenched into said pillow, knuckles turning white with the force with which he clung to it. 

“Did you find me stupid and worthless when I couldn’t get out of bed or dress myself last month?” Jehan hissed dangerously, one of his hands directing Grantaire’s face to his until their eyes met again. “Did you think I was a burden when I wasn’t even able muster up the willpower to feed or bathe myself?”

“Never!” Grantaire answered vehemently; the artist’s heart ached whenever he saw Jehan mired in despair and melancholy, but a depressed Jehan was no less worthy than a romantic or loving one. That Grantaire had spent more than a week bringing him takeout, reading him poetry, braiding his hair, and generally providing the man company was proof enough of that. 

“Well I feel the same, even if you cannot right now.” Jehan knew fully well, partially from personal experience, that his words likely would not reach Grantaire at the moment. Despite this, he felt that they had to be said, lest Grantaire think otherwise in the low that he was trapped in. 

“Jehan – ”

The poet hummed and shushed the other man, hugging him closer. “Courfeyrac understands,” Jehan whispered confidently, running his fingers through Grantaire’s hair. “We can always go out later, but I want to be here now.”

“Jehan – ”

“I’m here, R.”

As always, the poet always knew what to say. It was as if Jehan’s words broke a dam within Grantaire. The artist flung himself deeper into Jehan’s embrace, craving the warmth of skin that he did not feel he deserved. He was sick of attempting to be noble or good; trying to convince Jehan to go back to his date when all Grantaire wanted was to be held like this was borderline physically painful, if the clenching of his heart with each forced word was any indication. 

“Please,” Grantaire pleaded, feeling tears that had barely stopped begin to cascade down his face again. The darkness that he had carefully locked away so that he could logically convince Jehan to leave him to his misery broke free, and sobs wracked his frame as he clung desperately to his only source of comfort.

Jehan wrapped the artist up, pulling one of the blankets that had fallen to the floor up over the both of them, creating a wall that separated Grantaire from the cruelties of the world, though he understood all too well that the real monsters were inside. Without empty words like “It’s okay,” Jehan instead rubbed soothing circles on Grantaire’s back and let his presence comfort the artist, occasionally murmuring, “I love you,” and “You’re amazing, R.” 

He became the anchor that Grantaire needed desperately, providing solace with the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his pulse. He was there when Grantaire was not even sure of his own existence, and it meant the world and more. 

Slowly, the body-wracking sobs that shook Grantaire ebbed off, leaving soft hiccups and tears that had soaked through Jehan’s lace-trimmed shirt. By now, Jehan’s hands had migrated to Grantaire’s curls again – the poet loved those raven locks, even though Grantaire himself dismissed them as messy and unattractive. When Grantaire was completely wrung out, Jehan murmured softly, “Would you like tea, R, or shall we move to bed?”

Depending on Grantaire’s state, Jehan would either glide to the kitchen to methodically and slowly brew twin mugs of tea as the artist watched with weary eyes, or they would migrate to Jehan’s bed with parts of Grantaire’s nest of soft things to cuddle until the artist felt somewhat sane again, whenever that may be.

“Bed please,” was the strained response, and Jehan nodded, humming soothingly. 

“Do you think you can eat something for me, R?” Judging from the state of the apartment and past experiences, the poet was sure that Grantaire likely had nothing for sustenance since the pasta dinner that he had thrown together for dinner for the two of them last night. 

Grantaire shook his head, looking away. 

“Could we try some fruit or cheese?” Jehan gently tried again. Though the poet could empathize with how unimportant food felt after a long day like this, he also knew that skipping meals could make things worse in the long run. If Grantaire continued to insist otherwise, Jehan would soon capitulate, to try again later, but R sometimes refused simply because he could not bear to be away from comfort for long. 

“If we hurry?” Grantaire conceded, unconsciously clutching a part of Jehan’s shirt in one of his hands. 

Smiling, Jehan nodded. Squeezing Grantaire’s hands reassuringly, he made sure to move with purposeful and quick movements, gathering up the prepackaged fruit salad and cheese cubes that they kept in the second shelf of the refrigerator particularly for such instances, whenever they might be. Before long, he had a fork, a water bottle, and a container of food in one hand and Grantaire’s hand in the other. Together, they walked to Jehan’s room, where his penchant for soft items made a trip back to the living room for pillows unnecessary. 

Tucking Grantaire into the side of the bed where the corners of the room made for a type of haven from the world, Jehan perched next to him, facing the artist. Shifting in closer until their thighs touched and throwing a blanket over Grantaire, Jehan popped open the container of food and speared a cheese cube. Wordlessly, he offered the dairy to Grantaire, who opened his mouth and accepted it easily. This continued, alternating between cheese cubes and melon chunks and apple slices and orange wedges until the artist finally turned his head away. 

Finishing the last few bits of fruit himself, Jehan dropped the empty container on the bedside table before tucking himself into Grantaire’s side, lacing one of his hands in his. The man had once confessed that no contact felt close enough when he was sad, and Jehan did his best to alleviate that from then on. 

Jehan soothingly traced lines of poetry on Grantaire’s arms until the artist, all worn out, let his head drop on Jehan’s shoulder. “Thanks, Prouvaire,” Jehan thought he heard, before Grantaire finally dropped off into unconsciousness, at last relaxed enough to allow himself to do so.

The poet hummed quietly, smiling to himself, happy that the worst of it had receded for the moment. These lows were far from pleasant and rather debilitating for both of them, but having another person sharing the silence indiscriminately helped beyond what words could formulate.

Now, with their hands clasped together, sensation numbing into a pleasant, comforting source of warmth, the world ceased to be quite so hideous or quite so frightening.

**Author's Note:**

> So I was having a bad day and I needed a hug, but there wasn't anyone there, so I wrote a hug for myself and anyone who might need one.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
